


and counting

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Good soldiers follow orders. Good commanders know how to interpret.(What happens after Order 66, and how Wolffe ends up marooned on Seelos.)
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 17
Kudos: 101





	and counting

_ They say that the loveliest angels make the cruelest demons _ _  
_ _ And my darling, _ _  
_ _ You were so kind and beautiful _ _  
_ _ Before they dragged you to hell _

Wolffe lives. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

Plo’s ship loses an engine to the first shot and veers off course. The second strikes near the cockpit and fire spreads forward; then the ship carves a line through a building and it doesn’t really matter what was burning first because everything is burning, ship, Jedi, the tears running down Wolffe’s face, the sudden silent spot in the back of his mind that had been both fear and forgiveness a moment before. On the ground, tucked away in the command center, Wolffe watches the only person he has ever known how to love die because good soldiers follow orders and the Jedi were ordered to die for the Republic.

Good soldiers follow fucking orders indeed. The echo pours fuel on Wolffe’s rage. He’ll follow orders the way faeries grant wishes. 

_ When you ask for trouble _ -

* * *

Being a good commander was 80% interpretation. Maybe 90%. Before the Pack snagged themselves their very own Jedi with a functioning head on his shoulders, Wolffe had been doing so much creative requisitioning to keep his unit running that some of his fellow commanders were beginning to wonder why it was he’d never been called on the carpet for expense-related bullshit. After, of course, it was less of an issue - slightly, because the Senate listened to Jedi only a smidge more than they listened to clone troopers - but the mental gymnastics he’d gotten so good at come back easily, like he’d never stopped. 

All the gymnastics in the world couldn’t have saved Plo, even if Wolffe had been in the air. Order 66 was worded too specifically. His orders now are rather less specific, and so long as he focuses on a few particular details, he can do as he pleases. Things like  _ the Republic is dissolved _ and  _ I am a soldier of the Republic _ and  _ my General is Plo Koon. _ And maybe Plo had never specifically said to wage guerilla warfare against his murderers, but Wolffe is pretty sure Plo had at least once mumbled something along the lines of  _ if only the enemy were slightly inconvenienced _ . That’s close enough to an order for Wolffe, and Wolffe lives to follow orders. 

* * *

In the first 30 days of his bloody-minded campaign, he walks three squads into a minefield, loses a shipload of supplies bound for some battlefront in the mid-Rim, slashes so many tires his vibroblade stops working, and gives an entire legion the runs. Not his own, mind; he has no desire to suffer alongside the things that used to be his brothers, and part of him still hopes that Sinker and Boost and Comet might be salvageable. For that reason - and because Plo had been fond of the 104th - Wolffe makes a point of discommoding as much of the rest of the Imperial Army as he can manage without drawing attention to himself. 

It’s a lonely job. He was never supposed to be a saboteur. He needs camaraderie to thrive. The grim satisfaction of a bad job well done is no replacement for his brothers’ company or his general’s attention. A hundred disrupted encampments can’t replace the warmth of a body beside him under the covers. There is little comfort to be had in the age of the Empire.

The days tick by slowly, like sand passing a grain at a time in an hourglass. Every moment is a torment to Wolffe. The thing in his head that says  _ good soldiers _ drives him on, fighting for Plo’s lost cause because the alternative is even less bearable.  _ You are not expendable _ , says Plo.  _ You are not a droid. I will not suffer you to act like one. _

* * *

His quest is better served by deserting. Best not to risk some ranking officer issuing an order that compels him to stop, the way he was compelled to murder Plo’s family. Not having to keep a unit running frees up time to do other things, like pilfer from the stores and misappropriate random items from the Empire.  _ Waste not, _ says Plo.  _ Make use of what is available to us. _ Plo says a lot of things, these days.

When he steals off from the Empire’s flesh-droids for the last time, he takes a vambrace each from Boost and Sinker. They won’t be needing them anymore. The shuttle he acquires is large enough to carry a good portion of the battalion armoury, and what’s left is going to be useless with all the charge packs gone. The Imperial officers are going to have a hell of a time explaining this one, he thinks. The cold satisfaction sits uncomfortably in his chest when Plo approves of a job well done.

* * *

Wolffe graduates to arson.  _ A little warmth will do them good _ , says Plo, and so he finds a garrison on a planet with a lot of ice and wires up a couple buildings with det cord and explosives borrowed from their armory. A dash of gasoline in the barracks, a few burners left on in the kitchen, and Wolffe walks away from a conflagration the likes of which Avishan has never seen before. 

When the troopers return from patrol, they’ll have a nice fire to defrost by. Perhaps the improvement in their mood will convince them to lay down arms. They’ll have to; the next resupply isn’t due for six months. The closest food in the system is on Alderaan.

He’s done them a favor, really. It’s much easier to feed 100 than 250.

* * *

He chooses targets on impulse. The Empire’s security increases everywhere. He makes a narrow escape from an outpost after snipping fuel lines on a couple of speeders and then hides out in the desert for a week while Stormtroopers turn over every rock and tree hunting him down. There are reports of some hermit out there who might be willing to lend aid, but the idea of being around another person is unbearable. 

He thinks about cutting his losses. One day the Empire will fall. One day he’ll see Plo again.  _ One day _ isn’t enough anymore, hasn’t ever been enough, will never be enough. But there’s nothing in Wolffe’s memory that he can misconstrue to get what he wants. Instead, there’s only  _ I value your life more - keep the signal alive, Commander - good soldiers - _

Fuck you, Wolffe thinks, and lets the blaster fall from his chin. 

* * *

He sees his reflection in a glass. He’s aged. His hair has whitened and his face is worn and wrinkled even beyond his brothers, and he thinks soon he will be nothing more than a skeleton lumbering along, a conduit for vengeance, a puppet of a different kind. All he is is his anger. All of this - the hundreds of brothers dead, the pilfered supplies, the throats cut and bellies stabbed - is only a suicide note drawn out over the years. 

He should leave while he still can. The explosion he’s set off in the barracks has drawn a lot of attention. He can’t make himself turn away. The thing looking back at him is unrecognizable. Plo beside him curls a hand around his jaw, and Wolffe presses his forehead against the cool surface of his image in defiance of the wailing alarms and approaching shouting. Would it be so bad? To just - stay in this moment where Plo is as close as he has been in years, where there still might be something of himself left. 

_ Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome _

Plo smiles. It’s been a long time since he’s smiled, and Wolffe can’t make himself walk away again. Not again. Never again. 

* * *

He wakes in a dark room.

“Welcome back, Commander Wolffe,” says a voice that means nothing when millions of people share it. Wolffe cracks open his eye and decides it isn’t worth his time. 

“What do you want, Cody?” he growls. 

“Your chip’s out,” says the marshal.

Wolffe pauses. That hated mantra is finally gone. He thinks of Plo for the first time in years without  _ Empire - Republic - my commanding officer - what did Plo tell me. _ Instead, he sees only the quivering of Plo’s tusks when he laughed and the yellow of Plo’s first lightsaber and the sweep of Plo’s claw as they sparred in the ring. He sees Plo as he was, vibrant and kind, nothing at all like the ghoul Wolffe has twisted him into to justify his campaign. The truth, now that Wolffe can afford to face it, is that he has destroyed them both, and what he is today is something Plo could never have loved back. 

“How are you feeling?” Cody asks. He, at least, has not changed. He is charged with purpose, still what he was meant to be: someone his General could rely on. 

“Tired,” says Wolffe. His anger drains out of him, leaving him empty on the cot with a new hole in his head.

“There’s an operation that could use your leadership,” says Cody. Wolffe already knows his answer.

“No,” he says.

“Non-combat,” says Cody. “Search and rescue. Your favorite. Wolffe-”

“The only reason I’m alive right now,” says Wolffe flatly, “is because somehow my  _ riduur _ got through three years of war without ever telling me to go find him.” He doesn’t bother to meet his brother’s undoubtedly pitying gaze. “The damn chip was the only thing keeping me going. If you send me out there, I’m going to find the biggest ship I can get my hands on and jump it straight into Palpatine’s ugly fucking face. I’ll do it even if you don’t.”

“Wolffe,” says Cody. The pity in his tone dredges up what little remains of Wolffe’s ability to care.

“I’m done, Cody,” he says. “It’s been six years. He was made for me and I let him die scared. The only thing I have left to do is to burn every last one of those fuckers who killed him, and I don’t care what it does to your rebellion. Six years and counting - you know Plo’s been dead twice as long as I had him? Six fucking years. I’m done.”

He doesn’t fight when someone presses an injector against his arm. The drugs drag him under again quickly. There is a hand combing through his hair, and if he believes hard enough, a claw scratching lightly against his scalp.

* * *

He wakes again on a ship surrounded by sand and knows in his bones he is being punished for his sins. Rex is his warden. There will be no parole.

2200 days with no end in sight. Wolffe closes his eyes.

_ Can someone tell me who I am? _ _  
_ _ I haven't recognized myself in a while _ _  
_ _ And since you left I stay up every night _ _  
_ _ Thinking if you were here, you put me right _

_ Never meant to lose you _ _  
_ _ Never meant to lose me _

_ Can anyone hear me now? _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [count the cost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641795) by [chameleonchanging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging)




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